Satinalia
by eruestansurana
Summary: Certain scenes of the holidays for the party
1. Sten

Sten stared suspiciously at the package in front of him.

"What is it?" he said skeptically.

"It's a present, Sten," Rowena said patiently, ducking out of the way as Sten swung his sword around to poke the packages with its hilt. "You give them to people."

"Why?" he said mistrustfully. "Are you trying to buy my complacency?"

"If only it were that easy," Alistair muttered.

Rowena ignored him. "Don't be silly, Sten—it's Satinalia! _Everyone_ gets gifts on Satinalia!"

The Qunari frowned. "What is this Satinalia? Is it a disease?"

Everyone in the camp's jaws dropped. "You don't know what Satinalia is?" Wynne said in disbelief. "Sten, it's only the most important holiday in all of Thedas!"

"Not all of Thedas," he said calmly. "The Qun has no time for such drivel."

"Oh, but Sten, it is not drivel!" Leliana said, eyes wide. "Far from it! Satinalia is a time for being with your loved ones and letting them know how much you care! Oh, and also a time of shopping. Lots and lots of shopping." An excited grin had somehow crept upon her face.

Sten furrowed his brow. "You humans are a strange race," he said sternly. "Didn't we just save a castle from a possessed child? How is it that all you can think of are presents?"

"Disregarding the fact that I'm not human and really shouldn't be considered as such, I still think you aren't seeing the point, Sten," Eruestan said evenly. "Satinalia's all about appreciating the people in your life and showing them how much you care."

"Like I said, strange," he said.

Rowena sighed. "Look, Sten, you don't have to agree with us, but we still want to give you something."

"Why? I didn't buy anything for anyone else."

"That's not the point, Sten," Rowena said, closing her eyes. "We've all given each other our gifts—I mean, even Morrigan took hers…"

The witch laughed a little sadistically. "How could I not, when the object was so enticing? I believe I shall have quite a bit of fun this year."

Alistair turned a slight shade of green. "I still can't believe you gave her something like that," he murmured warily to Eruestan.

"Don't worry," the elf whispered back. "The charm'll wear off in a couple of days…besides, the worst she can do with it is make you vomit, and even that's only once an hour…"

His friend's coloring went a shade darker. "Maker, she's going to kill me, isn't she?"

Rowena cleared her throat and stared Sten straight in the eye. "Sten. Take. The. Present."

He leaned in slightly. "No."

"Sten, this cost a lot of gold! You can't just—hey! Where are you going? Sten!"

For the Qunari had walked out of the room, not bothering to look back.

* * *

Sten walked out of the doors of Redcliffe Castle. It felt nice to be by himself—these people were incredibly irrational.

He walked through the courtyard, completely ignoring the piles of burning corpses the castle guards were hastily trying to destroy. In between the heaves of the shovels, the soldiers cast uneasy glances at the eight-foot-tall giant stalking through their castle. He ignored them and continued walking.

Outside the castle gates, a group of people was walking across the bridge bearing a huge amount of food. They stopped warily as they saw Sten standing at the end.

He frowned. "What's this?"

One of the men up front stepped out timidly. "We're bringing food to the castle, for the holiday, ser."

_More irrationality_, Sten thought grimly. "Why? Don't you need the food as much as they do?"

"We reckon we're all in the same boat at this point, ser," a woman said simply. "People up there've been through enough in the past few days."

Sten frowned. "Why now? Why didn't you come two days ago?"

The people seemed confused. "Well, it's Satinalia, ser," someone said.

Sten scowled—more of this nonsense! These people wouldn't last five minutes under the Qun. His face set in stone, he began to plow his way through the crowd, completely oblivious to the squawks of horror echoing around him as hams and chickens plummeted off the bridge down to the chasm below.

Crossing the bridge, he began to make his way towards the village, dodging smiling couples and giggling children, his scowl becoming deeper and deeper with each step. _Idiots_, he thought bitterly. _They were almost destroyed a few days ago—are they really so fickle?_

As he entered the village, he was mildly interested to see that a huge column of smoke was pouring from the center square, away from the funeral pyres by the lakeside. To his disappointment, as he drew nearer he saw that it was only a massive bonfire.

Intrigued, he leaned against a nearby shop and watched as a small army of villagers hastily set up tables, tents, and a small dancing area. A group of men were slowly feeding the fire, tossing in wood and old chairs. To Sten's surprise, instead of begrudging the work, the people seemed to enjoy it. Everyone was laughing and joking—there wasn't an unhappy person in the place.

Confused, Sten sat down, ignoring the fact that he was in the middle of a snowdrift. These people had almost lost everything, and yet they were blatantly wasting everything they had for some pointless holiday! How was this possible? Was he missing something?

This tiny thought, one that had slipped into his psyche without any warning, opened a flood of questions in the Qunari's mind. Perhaps he was wrong? Maybe this holiday had a point after all. Maybe there _was_ something more to it than he was seeing. Maybe there actually _was_ something nice and meaningful outside of Par Vollen. For the first time in his life, Sten was struck with a forbidden thought—was it possible that the Qun wasn't right about _everything_?

Sten was frozen. Only the Tal'Vashoth could think like that. Excellent—now he had lost his sword AND his religion. Was he even a Qunari at this point?

Stuck in his identity crisis, Sten did not move for hours, instead sitting still as a statue while the festivities went on around him. Piles upon piles of food were served and devoured—huge flagons of ale were consumed, and the people began to get merrier and merrier. All around, pranks were pulled on unsuspecting people. A town fool was named Mayor for the day.

As the sun began to set, the villagers began to circle around the bonfire and dance, an act that normally would have made Sten scoff but now made him question himself even further.

It was during the dancing that a small child shyly approached the catatonic giant, head cocked to one side. "Mister, why are you all alone?"

Sten slowly turned his head towards the girl. "I…don't know," he admitted wondrously. "Why shouldn't I be?"

The girl's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Well…it's Satinalia…you can't be alone on Satinalia…doesn't your family want to be with you?"

Sten stopped and thought back to earlier. "Yes," he said, "they did."

"Then why aren't you with them, mister?" she asked, bemused.

"It's…complicated," he said. "I don't think I believe in Satinalia."

"What do you mean, you don't believe in Satinalia?" she laughed.

He looked up at her in annoyance. "It is against the Qun," he snapped. "The Qunari are meant to be practical at all times, and this is obviously not practical!"

She seemed to think for a minute. "Well, maybe the Qun's wrong about this," she said thoughtfully. "It can't be right about _everything_."

"Yes, it can!" Sten said angrily.

She frowned. "No, it can't—I mean, it's not right about Satinalia, is it?"

Sten let out a long breath. "No, it doesn't look like it." He looked back at the fire and the dancers and instantly thought back to his friends in the castle. "I should probably go back, shouldn't I?" he asked quietly. The girl nodded. He stood up, sending a cascade of snow tumbling down.

He cleared his throat, a little awkward. "Er…thank you," he muttered, embarrassed.

She shrugged. "You shouldn't have to be alone tonight," she said simply.

With that, she walked back to the bonfire and disappeared inside the circle.

* * *

Sten stepped into the dark antechamber silently, not wanting to disturb anyone. One of the doors was cracked open—through it, he could see the rest of his companions celebrating in the next room. Leliana was singing a lively Orlesian air that Eruestan, Rowena, and Alistair were dancing to—however, every now and then Alistair's arm would jerk out uncontrollably, and he'd shoot a nasty look at a gleefully cackling Morrigan. In the corner, Wynne was taste-testing about fifteen flagons of ale, which greatly impressed the dogs.

Sten moved forward to enter the room—however, a small package in the corner caught his eye. Picking it up, he saw his names scribbled across the top in large lettering. Suddenly very curious, he ripped off the paper and saw to his shock that a beautiful Qunari prayer book lay inside. Swallowing, he opened it and turned to one of his favorite sayings:

"_Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra…"_ He stopped before the end, however, uncertain of whether he should continue. After all, it seemed that on this day, the Qun did have some things wrong after all.

There was a gasp from the other room. "Oh, no, Sten!" Rowena cried. "I wanted to see your face when you opened it!"

The Qunari rolled his eyes, and then (even to his surprise), he smiled. Shaking his head in wonder, the giant walked forward and stepped into the room, fully ready to participate in this most irrational of holidays.


	2. Alistair

"No, Alistair, you mustn't leave the stable today."

"Please?" the boy cried, standing up. "I just want to go to the feast—I can get all my chores done beforehand, I promise!"

"I'm sure you can, Alistair," Arl Eamon said gravely. He was dressed in a splendid gold tunic—through his arm, Alistair could see a small army of servants carry mountains of food and decorations into the castle. "But the truth is that it's just impossible for you to go tonight."

"Why?" Alistair asked angrily. "All the other stable boys get to go—I should be able to too!"

"You'll still have a small feast in here," Eamon said gently, stooping down. "You'll get your presents, and a whole roast to yourself, and—"

"But I don't _want_ to have it to myself!" the boy shouted. "I want to go to the feast!"

The arl gave his ward a scrutinizing look, as if trying to see inside his mind. Alistair quickly tried to cloud over his eyes, worried that Eamon would see through his façade—if the man did, however, he ignored what he saw.

The arl drew himself up. "Alistair, do not raise your voice to me," he said sternly. "I'm sorry that you can't join us at the feast—I really am—but if this is how you're going to act, it might be a good thing that you can't go tonight. Now, get started with your work—if you aren't finished by sundown then you won't be able to celebrate Satinalia at all."

Alistair waited until the arl had stepped outside of the stable to unleash his pent-up rage. With a cry of anger, he kicked the nearest chest and instantly regretted it. Clutching his throbbing toe, he sat down on a bench in defeat.

This Satinalia feast was going to be one of the largest parties of the past few years. Everyone was going to be there—the Howes, the Couslands, the Mac Tirs…and the Theirins themselves. King Maric himself was going to preside over this feast, and Alistair desperately wanted to be a part of it.

Very few people knew that Alistair was the king's bastard son—so few that even the arlessa was unaware. Alistair, however, had always known, and for the past ten years he had wanted nothing more than to see his father for the first time. Now, here was the perfect opportunity, and he couldn't even get into the castle.

"It's not fair," he said to no one in particular. His father was one of the greatest heroes in Ferelden, and it seemed like everyone else in the kingdom had at least caught a glimpse of him. Shouldn't he, his son, have the same luck?

"What's that'?" someone said behind him—he shot out of his seat to see a lanky young man standing in the door.

"Er—nothing, Abe," Alistair said quickly.

"My arse, nothin'," the young man said, scratching his head. "What ain't fair, lil' man? Upset 'cause you can't get to the party?"

"Shut up, Abe," Alistair mumbled, flushing.

"Poor lil' Alistair, can't go out to dine," Abe sang nastily, picking up a broom and mock-dancing with it. "He'll be eatin' slop and soup while I'll be drinkin' wine."

Alistair felt his teeth grit. "Abe, I told you to shut up," he snarled.

"Temper, temper," Abe said annoyingly, wagging a finger in the younger boy's face. "You wouldn't want to lose your feast, now, would you?"

"What do you mean?" the boy said suspiciously.

"Well, I'm the giving you the food, ain't I?" Abe said smugly. "So if I decide you ain't been good enough, I reckon I'll just keep it all to meself." He licked his lips. "Maker, a whole duck to meself sounds good right about now…"

Alistair chucked a brush at his head; he ducked and with a laugh popped back out of the stable.

Frustrated, Alistair snatched the brush up off the ground and began to vigorously comb the mane of the nearest horse. Not paying attention, he accidently poked it in the eye; the animal whinnied in protest and started to rear up.

"Hey!" someone cried from the doorway. Alistair spun around to see a girl of around his age standing angrily in the courtyard. "You should be more careful!"

"It was an accident," he said sheepishly. "I didn't mean to."

"Try telling that to the horse," she said bluntly. She stepped out of the light and into the stables, giving Alistair a better glimpse as to who she was. She was dressed in a very expensive suit of armor and her dark red hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

Alistair frowned. "Where do you think you're going dressed like that?" he asked confusedly.

The girl's eyes narrowed. "To the training ground," she said tersely. "I wanted to get some practice in today."

Alistair shook his head. "You can't go there."

"Why?" the girl challenged, taking an aggressive step forward. "Is it because I'm a girl? Is it because I'm supposed to sit and curtsy and play with dolls?"

"Er…no," Alistair said warily, taking a step back. "It's just that the training grounds are always closed on Satinalia."

The girl froze, and then let out a defeated breath. "Oh. Well, then, never mind." She looked up at Alistair. "Wait, so you really don't care that I'm a girl?"

"No," Alistair said simply. "Should I?"

"No!" the girl said quickly. "It's just, most people think it's weird that I'd rather fight than have a tea party or something. I had to give my own nurse the slip an hour ago to try and get out here." She grinned faintly. "One of the squires back home used to complain about having to train with me all the time…until I beat him about a month ago. Oh, good times…"

"You have squires?" Alistair asked curiously. "And a nurse? Who are you? Where are you from?"

She blushed brilliantly and looked away. "That doesn't matter," she said hurriedly. "And to be honest, if I can't get to the fields, I really should be getting back. Nan'll be really mad, and I have to get ready for the feast…" She wrinkled her nose, indicating that to her, putting on a dress was akin to cleaning a lavatory.

Alistair's shoulders slumped. "_You_ get to go to the feast too?" he moaned, trying his best to not sound whiny. "Maker, this really isn't fair!"

"Wait, you don't get to go to the feast?" the girl cried, standing up straight. "But Arl Eamon told Father and me this morning that everyone in the castle was invited! Why can't you go? Did you do something wrong?"

He shook his head. "At least, not that I know of."

"Hmph. Well, you're right, that isn't fair. Are you at least getting some food?"

"That's not the point, really," he said quickly. "To be honest, I just want to see it."

She stared at him blankly. "To see it? What could you possibly want to see? It'll just be a bunch of people eating."

"Well, I mean, a lot of really important people are going to be there," Alistair said quickly, floundering. "You know, uh, the k-king, and the Mac Tirs, and the Couslands…" He trailed off, hoping he had successfully masked what he truly wanted.

She rolled her eyes. "The Couslands aren't anything special," she muttered, looking away again. "But if you just want to see everything…" She looked at him brightly, a gleam in her eye. "I have an idea—follow me!" She grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the stables.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, looking nervously over his shoulder. "I'm not supposed to leave the stables!"

"Oh, whatever," she said breezily, directing him towards where the back of the stables met the castle wall. "We're already here." She pointed to a window at the top of the Great Hall some forty feet up. "There. All you have to do is get to that window."

Alistair snorted in disbelief. "Oh, is that all? Why don't I just kill a dragon as well?"

"Look, I asked a maid about this, okay?" she said, annoyed. "Apparently the bricks make a lot of footholds on the way up, so it won't be that hard. The window's missing a lot of panes, and it leads right onto some rafters—you should be able to just crawl in and watch."

Alistair stared up at the huge climb and saw that several bricks were indeed jutting out of the wall, forming a ladder of sorts. A faint glimmer of hope stirred inside him. Perhaps he would see his father after all…

"Thanks," he said, grinning broadly. "I'm definitely going to try that." He furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait, why'd you need to ask a maid about this?"

"Oh, no reason, really," she said. "I just wanted to know where some good hiding places were, just in case I needed to—"

"MILADY!" someone shouted from above—the two of them jumped back and looked up to see an elderly woman march furiously down the castle steps. "Where in the name of the Maker have you been? I've searched this entire castle up and down three times!" She squinted forward. "What are you wearing? Is that your _armor_? Young lady, get up here at once!"

The girl sighed resignedly. "Well, this was fun while it lasted. Good luck!"

"You too," Alistair said slowly; the old woman was giving him the evil eye from where she stood in front of the castle steps. The girl stepped forward meekly and grabbed her hand. As they disappeared into the castle, Alistair turned his gaze once more to the tall walls. Grinning even more broadly, he began to go back into the stables to finish his chores as fast as possible.

* * *

Night fell with the snow on Redcliffe Castle. In the courtyard, the sole man not in the great hall was the guard outside the stable doors, who was desperately trying to keep warm by the large flame blazing by his post.

Inside the barn, Alistair stood gingerly on a barrel of oats, carefully watching to see what the guard posted outside was doing. As if on cue, the man began to cough loudly; Alistair quickly jumped up and grabbed onto one of the rafters. His flailing legs accidently hit a horse in the head—it neighed loudly in protest. Alistair froze, waiting for the guard to come bursting in to see what was the matter. However, the man didn't seem to have heard it; he merely scooted forward and put his hands closer towards the flame.

Letting out a deep breath, Alistair swung his legs up and around the rafter. Sweating in concentration, he swung around and balanced himself on top of the beam. Catching his breath, he quickly clawed a hole through the thatch roof and clambered on top of the building.

He felt himself tremble with excitement as he stood precariously on the thatch. This part of the courtyard was shrouded in darkness—there was no way anyone would be able to see him.

He walked carefully over to the castle wall at the far end and wrapped his hand around one of the bricks—it was very cold and covered in snow. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up and reached for the next brick, ignoring the snowflakes and howling wind.

The girl had been right—the bricks did make a clear path right up to the top of the building. However, what she hadn't known how long and difficult it would be. It only took a few minutes for Alistair to lose feeling in his hands, and the wind seemed determined to blow him off to his death. Soon, it was all he could do to force himself to keep reaching for the next foothold, to keep struggling to reach the top.

_I wonder if I look like him_, he thought resolutely as he continued on. _Maybe I'll be able to recognize him right away out of all those people._ He then remembered that the king would be easily identifiable, as he would be wearing his crown and seated in a place of honor. _Well, maybe not that then._

_Maybe he'll look up and see me_, he thought a few minutes later as a cold burst of wind tore through his body. _He could just glance up to the rafters and see me sitting there. Then he'd know that I was his son, that I'm just as brave and as bold and strong as he is._ The thought warmed him, and he continued climbing.

Alistair tried not to look down as he began to reach nearer the window. He was very high up—higher than he'd even been before—and already he had nearly fallen twice. Teeth clenched together so hard he thought they would shatter, he reached far up for the next brick, which was farther apart than the others had been…

Suddenly, to his horror, one of the bricks he had been standing on gave way, throwing his entire body off-balance. Reeling desperately, he was left dangling off of the one brick his idle hand had been resting on. He frantically tried to regain his position; yet his feet could not find anything to grab onto. He was going to fall and die unnoticed, the unwanted son of the great King of Ferelden…

Something snapped inside Alistair's mind. With a great cry that was lost in the wind, he thrust his free hand up towards the top of the wall, clinging desperately to the crevasse he found there. As he regained his balance, he found that what he was clutching was not a regular foothold but the wide space of a windowsill. Channeling all his strength, he flung himself upwards and onto the ledge, lying in silence in the few inches of snow. Taking a deep breath, he crawled through the empty panes and moved onto one of the rafters.

The wood was old and moldy, and smelled as though several woodland animals had used it as a latrine. Ignoring the stench, he grabbed the beam in a bearhug and shimmied out to look down on the feast below.

It was like he was looking down on another world. In front of the large U-shaped table, a large crowd of entertainers and jesters all wearing bright costumes juggled, told jokes, held staged fights and did elaborate dances. Huge garlands littered the hall, and magical balls of light bobbed to the time of the song played by the Antivan musicians stationed in one corner of the hall. Teams of elven servants were marching in with whole cartloads of food: Antivan pastas, Anders cheeses, Nevarran roasts, Fereldan stews, Orlesian pastries…Alistair's mouth watered just looking at all of it.

Then came the guests. There was proud Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, who didn't take his armor off even at banquets. Next to him sat his daughter, the beautiful Lady Anora, wearing a bright blue dress that probably cost more than most Fereldens made in a year. Alistair felt his heart race as he saw a blond haired man whisper something in the lady's ear; however, he quickly realized that he had to be Maric's son, Cailan, as he was about twenty years old. Alistair stared curiously down at his older brother. He looked a little like him, only more pampered, and perhaps slightly lazier. He looked very pleased with himself as Anora laughed at what he had said; Alistair wasn't sure if he liked him.

Not wanting to look at the center of the table just yet, he glanced down at the other end, and to his surprise saw the girl from earlier sullenly playing with her fork. Her armor had been exchanged for a dress, and she looked all the more miserable for it.

He felt bad for her—he'd hate to have to wear a dress too.

And finally, there was nowhere left but to look at the king. Holding his breath, he switched his gaze to the central throne…to find no one sitting there. Horrified he quickly scanned the guests once more—there! A tall blond man was bent over the arl and arlessa, who had respectfully given their seats next to the king to Teyrn Bryce Cousland and his wife, Eleanor. Suddenly, one of the doors leading into the great hall burst open, and Abe shuffled in looking for Arl Eamon. Bowing respectfully to the king, the stable boy bent over and whispered frantically into Eamon's ear. The arl instantly stood up and began searching through the crowd, no doubt looking for his missing ward.

Alistair's heart sank. He had forgotten that someone was going to check on him during the celebrations. _I'll probably have to go back soon if I want to make it look like I was there the whole time,_ he thought grimly. He was not relishing the long trip back down.

Determined to get one last look of his father before he had to go, he learned far out from the beam. Eamon was blocking the king's face; frustrated, Alistair leaned out even further, craning his neck for just one glimpse of the king…

It was then that he heard it.

CRACK! CRACK!

Terrified, Alistair looked back to see long, jagged fractures forming in the wood. Panicking slightly, he began to shimmy his way back to the wall; however, his shifting weight seemed to cause more trouble than it was meant to prevent. He felt the beam give way, and all of a sudden he was falling, free-falling to what would certainly be his death, listening in horror as people below began to scream at what they saw…

It was like he had fallen into a vast body of water. His movement, and the movement of the falling wood around him, all had instantly become sluggish and smooth. Confused, he looked down to see a mage pointing his staff directly at him, a light-blue aura emanating from the wood.

Gently, softly, Alistair floated to the ground, landing lightly on the warm stone floor—the crowd has largely been dispersed. Stunned with shame and humiliation, he looked up laboriously at the many alarmed faces surrounding him. He caught many, many different emotions: concern from Lady Anora, contempt from Teyrn Loghain, amusement from Cailan, wrath from Arl Eamon, and horror from the red-haired girl. However, nothing could match the look on the tall blond man's face standing behind the arl and arlessa.

Alistair stared wondrously at it. It did look very much like his own—the same blond hair, the same light blue eyes, the same half-smile. Alistair couldn't tell if he was amazed, horrified, or confused—it didn't look like the man knew either. He jerked forward, as if to reach out and grab the boy in his arms. However, Arl Eamon beat him to it.

"Get back in the stables," he snarled, his teeth bared in Alistair's face. "Now."

Alistair nodded dumbly and let himself be pulled to his feet by two guards who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Just as he was about to be whisked away from the party, he craned his neck towards his father, the King of all Ferelden, who looked just as hopeless as he did.

* * *

The cloaked man slid unseen into the stable, barely making a sound. He snuck past a lanky boy of about 17, stifling the urge to pummel him for betraying his son. He then walked right into a barrel.

"OU—" He shoved a fist into his mouth, praying to whoever would hear him that the boy would not wake up. He didn't—Alistair, however, did.

"W-who's there?" he heard the boy whisper fearfully. "W-who are you?"

Maric smiled sadly. "You're very brave, Alistair," he said softly, sitting down next to his cot.

He could see the boy freeze in shock. "F-father?"

"Yes," Maric whispered. "Yes, it's me."

They sat in silence for a few moments, neither sure of what to say to the other. Then, the king heard a timid voice ask, "So…how…are you?"

He laughed gently. "I'm good, thank you," he chuckled. He then frowned. "But what about you? I told Eamon not to punish you for tonight." He instantly regretted saying it—he didn't want the boy to think he was trying to buy his love.

"He just yelled at me, really," Alistair said with a shrug. "Which is weird, because normally he never yells." He sighed. "Nothing's ever normal anymore."

"What do you mean?" Maric asked, confused.

The boy sat up. "Well, it's just, normally I'm allowed to go to the feasts, and normally I'm allowed to meet people, and I'm allowed to leave the stables. Plus, most people get to see you," (he paused, as if embarrassed), "and I can't, and I don't know why, and it really, really, really stinks!"

Maric let out a long breath. "I see. That sort of abnormal." He ran a hand through his hair and blinked tightly, trying to think. "You're right. It does stink. A lot. But Alistair, what I want you to know is that it's not your fault."

"It's not?"

"No, not at all. Actually, it's mine."

The boy jerked his head back. "_Yours_?"

He nodded somberly. "I was stupid, Alistair. I loved your mother very much, but still, being who we were, we should have known better. If I hadn't been so careless, you wouldn't be in this situation, having to pretend you're someone you're not. It's not fair, not fair at all and it's all my fault, Alistair—I'm so sorry…"

Silence hung through the air like a blanket. Then, with a meekness more terrible than any battlecry Maric had ever heard:

"So I shouldn't have been born?"

Maric felt his face blanche. "No, no, no, no, Maker no!" he said rapidly, his head jerking back towards his son. "Don't think that for a second, Alistair. Don't even let it cross your mind. What I meant was…" He struggled to come up with the words. "Well, I don't know what I meant. Just know this—I'm proud of you."

"You are?'

"Yes. You're so brave, and so determined. I took a look at that climb you made earlier—not many people could do that and walk away uninjured." The king put an arm on the boy's shoulder. "You're going to be a great man someday, mark my words."

The boy seemed frozen, unable to do anything under his father's touch. Almost instinctively, the king reached over and embraced him.

Alistair buried his face into his chest. "I missed you…Dad," he muttered through a thick sniffle.

Maric's head jerked up. _Dad._ Not even Cailan had called him that. It was always "Father" back at the palace. He hugged Alistair even tighter. "You too, son," he murmured, struggling to remain composed.

Father and son remained together for a few more moments, and then reluctantly split apart. In front of them, Abe shifted restlessly in his sleep, muttering something about acorns.

"I have to go," Maric whispered gently. "People will be wondering where I am."

"Wait!" Alistair said frantically. "I just met you! You can't just leave!"

"But I have to, Alistair," he said quietly. "I'm the king—I need to help people."

"I thought kings could do whatever they wanted," the boy muttered, looking down at his hands.

Maric shook his head gravely. "Don't I wish," he laughed wearily. "But no, a good king—a truly good one—that's a man who is willing to put everything down for his people. It's the public that controls the king, not the other way around."

"That's stupid," Alistair grumbled.

Maric chuckled. "You're telling me."

"Well," Alistair said slowly, looking back up at him, "will I at least see you again?"

Maric gave him a hesitant look. "I…I can't make any promises," he said sadly. "I…I don't know, Alistair. I really don't."

Alistair's shoulders sagged. However, he took a deep breath and nodded resignedly, not saying another word.

Reluctantly, Maric rose to his feet. He bent over and gently kissed his son's forehead. "Goodbye, Alistair," he said softly.

"Bye, Dad," the boy whispered back.

Maric shuffled out of the stables, feeling some ten years older. He began to walk morosely up the castle steps, unwilling to return to his life of constant service. Suddenly, he heard frantic footsteps running up behind him. He spun around to see Alistair standing in front of him.

"I forgot to tell you," the boy said quickly, catching his breath. "Happy Satinalia."

Maric laughed in disbelief. "Happy Satinalia to you too, Alistair," he said warmly.

The king watched as the boy clambered back into the stables, the falling snow quickly filling in his footprints. As he entered the castle doors, he knew with a heavy heart that he would likely never see his son again.


	3. Morrigan

Once upon a time, there was a tiny village on the edge of a great and scary forest. No one wanted to go into the forest—there were supposed to be witches and monsters and every sort of dark and evil thing living inside. And so the villagers stayed away from the forest, and all was good.

Now, it just so happens that there was a girl who lived all alone in the great forest with no one but her mother to talk to. All of the villagers hated the girl—they thought she was odd, and frightening, and so they shunned her. The girl, however, wanted very much to live with the villagers, for they were happy and merry and did not often talk about seducing men and killing them in their sleep, as her mother did. And so the girl would sit in the trees and watch the villagers go about their lives, always wanting to be a part of what they were doing and yet never able to.

As the girl watched, she noticed that every year, towards the end of the year, the villagers would all start to decorate their houses and throw parties and drink themselves until they would sleep with anything, including a mop and two ugly old ladies from the north. The girl was fascinated by what she saw, but she was always too timid to venture out of the woods to try and celebrate with them.

However, when the girl turned fifteen years old, she decided that the time had come for her to experience life with fellow humans. So, when the day of Satinalia rolled in, she procured herself a new cloak from the corpse of a hapless traveler and headed into the village.

First, the girl went to the local chantry and knocked on the door. The Revered Mother stepped out.

"What in the name of the Maker do you want?" she snapped irritably. "Don't you know you don't knock on chantry doors?"

The girl ignored her. "I would like to spend the day of Satinalia with you and the sisters," she said firmly.

The woman laughed. "Dearie, you've picked the wrong chantry. I'd rather swim in a sea of fire than let _you_ into this building. Now get out of here before I call the Templars!"

And so was the girl rejected from the first group.

Next, the girl went up to a large group of people setting up for a party on the central green. She stepped right in between two men who were having an earnest discussion with each other.

"Oi! What are you doing?" one of the men barked. "Can't you see I'm trying to have a conversation?"

She ignored him. "I'd like to spend the day of Satinalia with you and your group," she said firmly.

The man snorted. "Yeah, I bet you would, missy. Too bad you ain't invited, isn't it? Maker, I'd rather fall into the earth itself that let one of _you_ people in."

And so the girl was rejected from the second group.

Next, the girl went to the house of a wealthy and powerful banker. She picked up a rock, busted through the front window, and walked in.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" the banker screeched, jumping up from his chair. "YOU JUST BROKE MY WINDOW!"

She ignored him. "I'd like to spend the day Satinalia with you and your…money, I suppose," she said a little uncertainly.

The banker began to pull out his hair. "YOU'D LIKE TO _WHAT_? HOW DARE YOU DESTROY MY PROPERTY! OUT! OUT!"

And so was the girl (forcefully) rejected from the third group.

Finally the girl came across a tiny cottage in the far back of the village. She calmly opened the door and walked through.

A pleasant-looking man and woman looked up at her from the table they were sitting at with their three children. "Why, hello there," the man said cheerfully. "What can we do for you?"

She responded: "I'd like to spend the day of Satinalia with you and your family." She did not sound very firm—she actually felt rather guilty spending the day with them when she saw how little they had.

The woman, however, merely smiled broader and told her to sit down. "More the merrier on Satinalia," she said cheerfully. "We'd love to have you—please, make yourself comfortable."

And so the girl ate, and she drank, and she danced. She had a wonderful time.

As she left the house in the dead of night, she knew what she had to do.

For the next year, she trained, and trained, and trained. She learned about all sorts of herbs and fungi and venoms. She learned spells and potions and salves and almost everything about everything—within reason, of course.

And so, when the next Satinalia came to pass, she marched up to the chantry and pointed a hand at its roof. Instantly, the ceiling burst into flame. Almost instantly the roof fell in a spectacular explosion, frying everyone inside to a crisp.

"One sea of fire, I believe?" she said.

And so the girl enacted her revenge on the first group.

Next, she walked to the village green, where the people were setting up for the holiday once more. The man from the year before saw her and laughed.

"What are you doing here?" he jeered. "I thought we made ourselves clear last year!"

The girl sank to the earth and pressed her hand to it. Instantly, the ground began to tremble violently. Before the man had the chance to scream, the ground had swelled up and swallowed him and his friends whole.

"'Tis what you asked for, is it not?" she said.

And so the girl enacted her revenge on the second group.

Next, the girl walked to the banker's house. He was standing in his front garden.

"You!" he snarled, pointing at her. "You owe me a window!"

The girl pointed at him as well. Suddenly, he stiffened, and he and his house began to become transparent. Soon, they were clear and brittle and unmoving.

"There," she said calmly, staring at the glass statue. "I have given you enough window to last your whole life."

And so the girl enacted her revenge on the third group.

Finally, she reached the poor cottage. The family, just as they had been last year, sat eating inside. Smiling, the girl reached out and placed several rare herbs from the center of the forest into their garden, and using one of her spells ensured that they would grow and flourish. She then waved her hand and brought a field of flowers to life in front of their house, open for everyone (who was still living) to see. Finally, she went up to the family's meager cow in the backyard and whispered a few words in its ear. The beast slowly began to fill out as if being blown up by an air pump, until finally it was the fattest cow the girl had ever seen.

And so the girl showed her gratitude to the last family.

And so take this lesson from this story, my child—know that Satinalia is only special if you do good for others as well as for yourself. If you do not, then the holiday loses its meaning, and the mysterious girl from the woods owes you a visit.


End file.
